Pills
by Suicidal Grasshopper
Summary: In which Brooklyn contemplates life, liberty, and the pursuit of a prescription-free existence. Not the slightest clue what genre to put it in.


Laaalalalala. I wrote this in Bio a couple weeks ago, under a ridiculous amount of stress and a pressing migraine. I got thinking about all the medications I'm on, and then I got thinking about Brooklyn, and it spiraled out of control, and this was born.

Enjoy!

**Disclaimer**: Really. Think about it. What goes here?

* * *

Pills

My life revolves around medication.

There's the oval-shaped red pills I have to take for ADD that I don't actually have.

Then there's the white oval disc-shaped pills for my allergies that they make me take like they'll save my life, even though I don't care much for walnuts anyway, and eating small amounts won't do much more than give me a stomach ache.

The little green pills are for schizophrenia--supposedly, at least. I still say that I'm not schizophrenic and never have been, and therefore the pills do nothing.

The blue ones are sleeping pills, prescribed for yet another disorder I don't have. Garland's caught me keeping odd hours of the night and insists I have a problem. ...Actually, now that I think of it, he's responsible for more than half of my prescriptions. Hmmmm.

The little pink ones are for depression--these might do a little bit of something, actually. Still a little hazy on that particular medical mystery--I usually don't pay too much attention to things like that.

These white ones that look a little more circular than my allergy meds are my favorites--they're my migraine pills. Actually, they're really high-strength painkillers--like vicodin on steroids--that I just happen to take because of migraines, but you get the idea. I'd eat them like candy if I could, I love them so much. Garland says I'm dependent on them, but if I am (which I'm not), he doesn't get to say anything about it anyway, since it's his fault I'm on any of these stupid medications in the first place.

And if the sheer quantity of all these tiny medical beauties wasn't enough to make your stomach churn, I have to take each of them at a certain time during the day--if I just get it over with during breakfast, the drug cocktail would kill me within a couple hours. The ADD pills, the allergy pills, and the depression pills Garland makes me take almost as soon as I get up (makes my orange juice at breakfast have the worst aftertaste, let me tell you). The sleeping pills, obviously, I have to take before I go to bed, but usually I just skip it unless Garland checks, because I don't have a sleeping disorder and never will--I sleep when I damn well please, thank you very much. The schizophrenia pills I'm supposed to take every three hours, even though I don't and I'm just fine. The migraine pills (my favorites, remember?) are mine to take when I feel like I need them, so generally I have at least one or two per day. Hey, I live with Mystel and Ming-Ming--just the sound of their voices can send a migraine spiking through my skull.

"...So you're going to need to take them-- ...Brooklyn."

I blink out of my medical musings and nod blankly, having not the faintest idea of what wisdom Garland was trying to impart to me.

He huffs and pushes his hands into the pockets of his rich-boy jeans (you know, the kind that are meant to look casual and low-key, and compliment an Ivy League sweatervest all at the same time?), looking moodily down the pharmacy pick-up line.

I nudge his shoulder and raise my eyebrows hopefully, taking one last stab at an idea I've been trying to impress on him all afternoon. "You know, we could just go get ice cream, instead of standing here. I mean, it'd be good--I like ice cream, you like ice cream..."

"Brooklyn."

He's looking at me with that 'If-you-don't-shut-up-I'm-going-to-make-you-suffer' look. Uh-oh.

I duck and slink several steps away.

After he picks up the paper bag with my prescription, he grabs my wrist like a mom with a little kid (I almost snicker, but I manage to keep the hilarity of the thought to myself) and pulls me behind him out to the parking lot, handing me the bag as we approach the car.

I rip it open and pull out the contents. Oh, joy, another orange bottle. I wrinkle my nose. "Ugh, white again."

"You have to take them," Garland explains wearily, unlocking the car and climbing behind the wheel. "They're just antibiotics, at least--you won't be on them forever."

"I hate medication. I bet I don't even _have_ a lung infection and Dr. Mengele was just lying. Again." He's a shifty guy--kind of reminds me of Boris, but with better teeth. I climb in the back seat and lay down across the seats, bending my knees to fit.

Garland starts his yoga breathing to keep from biting my head off--I can hear it: in through the nose, out through the mouth, slow and painfully controlled. His patience is almost everlasting--I've only seen him lose it, _really _lose it, once. Maybe twice.

"He's a doctor--he wouldn't lie about you needing medication. That'd be malpractice. Doctors go to jail for that, Brooklyn. It's serious."

"Then maybe he should go to jail, because I don't need all this medication."

"Brooklyn..."

I shift my gaze from the back of his seat to the roof of the car and hold the pill bottle in front of my eyes, scanning the medical mumbo jumbo on the label. "I'm fine, and you know it."

He pulls up to the exit of the parking lot. I can feel him looking at me from the front seat, but I refuse to look back.

"You know I only want what's best for you."

"And you know what it is, but you let him tell you what to do for me, anyway. It's all a conspiracy--the drug companies want me taking all these drugs so you'll keep buying these insane quantities of pills every month."

He pulls forward and heaves another sigh--he seems to be doing that a lot lately. "He's the one who went through medical school, Brook, not me. If he says you need the medication, then you need the medication."

I turn my head to look at the back of his seat again. "I'm better than I was, Gar. It's old news--you know that, but you won't believe it."

We drive in silence for a block or two. I've almost given up on not having to take the pills and resigned myself to a drug-addled future.

"I'll talk to him about it at your next appointment, okay?"

I smile.

"Okay."

Finally, someone listens.

* * *

Ffffffff. Really wish it hadn't ended that painlessly, because it would've been so much cooler and poetic and junk if it had only turned out _another way_, but oh well. I'm too lazy to go back and change it now, so it stays.

Some drugs are amazing, and some are just annoying. Remember that before you get a prescription.

Please review.


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